


Fires of the Abyss

by tryslora



Category: Chronicles of Amber - Roger Zelazny
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Post-Canon, Second Series Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 07:24:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12979020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: I never asked to be a father, and I sure as hell never asked for the complications that come along with the title. King? King is almost easy. King is just a new version of the same damned family game that I’ve been playing since I was born. But father… unless I want to be like my own father… is something else entirely.





	Fires of the Abyss

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Serenade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serenade/gifts).



> Hey there, dear Serenade! Amber is one of my absolute favorite things, and it was such a joy to be in Random's head. I haven't read the books in forever, and I wanted to make this post second-series canon for you, and to make it as Zelaznian as possible. I just had a wonderful time rereading the books, and it was like rediscovering the second series all over again. I hope you enjoy this story of Random and Martin's little father/son outing with a healthy dose of politics and machinations along the way. Happy Yuletide!

I never asked to be a father, and I sure as hell never asked for the complications that come along with the title. King? King is almost easy. King is just a new version of the same damned family game that I’ve been playing since I was born. But father… unless I want to be like my own father… is something else entirely.

Which is why I’m sitting on the edge of the Abyss, watching my son, Martin, suit up to take flight into the pit. It’s not an intelligent idea, and I probably should talk him out of it. Instead, I’m just here to witness his idiocy.

If I’m honest, it’s not the first time.

“Don’t worry,” Merlin says, and I bark out a laugh.

“Two kings are sitting on the edge of the Abyss, staring in,” I tell him. “It sounds like the start of a bad joke. Where’s the part when it looks back at us?”

“That’s what Martin’s trying to find out.” Merlin’s fingers twitch, and I might not be trained in sorcery to the same level that he is, but even I can feel the power flowing out. “But I mean it; don’t worry. He’ll be protected, even though he doesn’t have a demon form.”

He’s testing me, poking at things that Martin may or may not have mentioned. I consider my answers, wondering which one is more politic. In the end, though, it’s fatherhood that wins out over familial relations. My gaze skips back to where Martin stands poised on the edge of the Abyss, something wrapped around him in a nearly invisible truss. The other two standing with him don’t have the same safety nets, waiting there with wings or other ways of getting in and out safely.

They all leap at once, and I swallow as my son disappears into the darkness.

“How’s that coming?” I ask softly, and Merlin nods in a shallow motion.

“Slowly,” he tells me. He sits down on the hard ground, bends his knees and rests his elbows on them, hands loose.

I join him, reaching into a pocket to withdraw the drumsticks I have stashed there. Not only would it be uncomfortable to sit on them, holding them gives me something to do with my hands. “But it’s happening,” I prod, and he shoots me a look, wary.

“It’s happening,” he admits. “Slowly. He has the blood of Amber in his veins far more than the blood of Chaos—he’s three generations removed, after all, and you didn’t sleep with a demon to beget him. His humanity is locked around him like a shell. But he’s also determined to reach back to those roots, and if there’s a slim chance, he’ll grab on.” Merlin falls silent, regarding the Abyss for a long moment.

I wonder at his thoughts, unsure whether I could even follow them. For all that Merlin seems human as he sits beside me, I know that he was raised here in Chaos. That his mind was shaped by people who are at times pillars of fire, and other times demons made of ice. That anything is possible. It’s a little alien, but we’re trying, he and I, to find our balance and our way to keep peace between the two ends of the universe.

Martin’s dive into the pit is a part of that, as is Martin’s recent residence in Chaos.

“I think this will help.” Merlin nods at the Abyss.

“Forged in the Abyss?” I ask, and again Merlin looks at me, his gaze hooded before he looks away.

“Something like that. We’ve spoken about how the Abyss isn’t supposed to belch fire, right?” he asks, as if we didn’t have this conversation just a few hours ago, when I made my way here after his summons.

I wonder what part of it I missed, that he feels the need to repeat it now.

“A bit,” I say, letting the silence linger to encourage his elaboration.

Merlin reaches out, palm down and fingers outstretched. He wiggles his fingers as if controlling a marionette, and I wonder if Martin dances to this movement. I give him a dark look, and he smiles slightly. “Adjusting the magic suit,” he says. “It’s actually colder than I expected down there. Given the fire.”

“You can tell?”

He nods. “Feedback through the spell. It’s not as good as if I were down there, but for some reason they don’t want me to become an honorary Pit Diver right now. Something to do with not being expendable. Since most people who go into the Abyss are dead and being honored by being given back to the Void.”

He means Swayvill, the former king of Chaos, and before him, my father, Oberon. The Abyss has claimed two kings in recent years, and I hope as we sit here that it does not hunger for two more.

“Coronation has a way of making them expect us to act responsibly,” I mutter, and he laughs at that.

“It never really works, does it?” He leans back on his hands, knees bent. “It makes me wonder—just how responsible was Swayvill? If I listen to Mandor, or my mother, he was entirely too respectable. I’m nothing like him.”

“I’m nothing like my father,” I say, but it’s a lie. Oberon loved to roam in shadow, had impossible relationships with his children, and had a bad habit of leaving the kingdom in the hands of others. If I look at it like an outsider, I’m all too like Oberon was. Maybe that’s why the Pattern likes me.

“The Abyss is cold,” Merlin says. “We’ve all floated above it. Across it. Taken filmies and looked down into it. It’s the Void. It’s the thing that came before Chaos, according to my mother, and I wonder sometimes if it’s the thing waiting to take it all back, should the balance between Chaos and Amber ever fail. If it’s just waiting to swallow us into nothing.”

“Belching fire doesn’t sound like nothing,” I point out dryly. I lean forward, in counterpoint to his relaxed recline. The sticks in my hand have a pleasant weight, and I tap them against the stone, switching between those and my fingertips to find a rhythm and sound that works for my ears.

“Exactly.” Merlin lies back, pillows his head on his bent arms and stares up at the sky turning above us. “That’s why we need to investigate. Fire coming out of the Abyss implies that at least one thing that’s gone in might have survived.”

Chilling thought.

I make myself lie back as well. I use one arm as a pillow; the other still holds the sticks and idly taps the ground between us. The idea of any of the things that have gone into that crater coming back out is not good. “And that’s why you investigate.”

“Mm.” He reaches out with one finger, stop the sticks from moving, and silence falls around us. “My father hopes it’s Deirdre.”

Out of everything the Abyss has taken of late, Deirdre is the one who might cause us the least damage upon her return.

Unfortunately, Deirdre was one of tears, not fire. I’m pretty damned sure it’s not her.

#

Martin rides out of the Abyss atop a gout of silvered flame, at the same time dangling from the four claws of some winged beast. They deposit him at the edge, just beyond where we sit, and he shakes himself before brushing dust from his skin. The flame shrinks to something almost resembling humanity, but the beast stays as is, hunched down, wings folded against its back.

When I look more closely, he seems to be in shadow, skin marbled and dark. He takes a step forward, brushes his hair back from his face, and he’s simply Martin. My son.

Merlin once called him a farm boy, or perhaps that was Rinaldo. They had no idea I was within earshot, I’m certain, and I wasn’t going to disagree. It suits me as much as Martin if they see him as innocent, struggling to gain the thick veneer required by the family game. And perhaps he was, in some ways, raised in Rebma and striking out to see the world on his own. But he’s always known where he came from, and what might be expected of him if he were to enter the court of Amber properly.

And Brand, of course, ensured that Martin knew exactly how dangerous family could be. Skewered like an animal to be bled upon the Pattern, before Martin fled to lick his wounds in Shadow.

But this appearance he wears now—these features of punk rock and anger at the world—they do not prove more or less innocence than before. It’s only hair, and clothes, and an attitude that armors him.

He approaches, kneels momentarily before he sits cross-legged and regards us as we sit there, waiting for him.

Perhaps we should make this official, this debriefing by two kings. Personally, I’d rather take the easy route.

“Did you see anything?” Merlin asks.

There’s a flush to Martin’s cheeks, staining his skin with warmth. “Ghosts,” he says. “Ghosts that must have been sent by the powers, but I can’t think how or why. Can the Pattern reach into the Abyss?”

Tension lines Merlin’s shoulders. He touches his hip, where a knife might lie. “Why?” he asks.

“I saw Brand,” he says, gaze dropping. “And Dara.”

The first answer is exactly the one I was concerned I might hear, although not nearly so bluntly said. The latter is a surprise.

“Together?” I ask.

He looks up sharply, gaze narrowing. “Together?” he echoes. “No. In the same place, perhaps, but not together.”

Merlin blinks.

I take a moment to consider that interpretation, and Martin’s forceful reaction. He is definitely no innocent, and I wonder why he would assume that was what I meant.

Dara did, once upon a time, scheme with Brand against Amber. And in her own way, against Chaos as well, with her plans to place a son of both realms upon the throne. But I never would have thought she was with Brand in any way other than as an ally.

Martin, however, leapt to the assumption with a frightening speed.

“Perhaps you should go back to the beginning,” I suggest. “Clarify what you saw, and what you think it might mean.”

Merlin mirrors Martin’s pose, cross-legged with his hands clasped together in his lap. Fingers twist, and again, I note the tension.

He’s young, still, and not yet fully schooled in hiding his emotions. He’s good, yes, but the game is new, and the crown wears heavily upon him. From what I gather, those who should be helping him may only add further weight for him to carry, which is not entirely a surprise.

I feel for the kid.

“We didn’t find the source of the flame,” Martin admits. “We leapt in, and it was dark. I felt the magic around me, slowing my fall while I had T’riss and Galvin to guide my way. We sought the source, but found nothing. We did, however, discover a ledge.”

“A ledge.” Merlin’s voice falls flat, but something flickers in his gaze, a lick of interest.

Thus, I am intrigued as well.

“It’s a crater in the ground,” I point out. “I would think it would be riddled with caves and ledges.”

“Not the Abyss,” Merlin says quietly. “The Abyss is the Void, remember? It’s endless. I won’t even send Ghost in there.”

Ah, yes, the intelligent and exceedingly dangerous ring of light that Merlin built.

“I see. You would not send your own son, but you would send mine.” It’s not a question, and Merlin glances at me, as if he hears the threat that underlies my word.

I would protect my son, even against another king, yes.

“Different situation, Dad,” Martin says. “Ghost’s a power in his own right—he’s got a little bit of Trump, a little Pattern, even a little Logrus.”

I don’t dare blink, lest I show my surprise at the last. I’m fairly certain Martin was not meant to tell me that.

“If Merlin sent Ghost into the Abyss, it might see him as one of the powers coming to call, rather than as something that’s merely… human.” Martin grins, pushes the purple hair that’s fallen into his face back and out of the way. “Or as close to human as we get.”

“The point is, usually once someone goes over the edge of the Abyss, there’s nothing but floating.” Merlin wrenches us back to the original topic—and away from the safety of our respective children—with a complete lack of grace. “They float, and there’s some direction, and they can move. They always seem to know where up is, how to get back to the edge. But no one ever lands. There’s no bottom—not that anyone has ever reached—and there are no ledges.”

“There is now,” Martin says. “A ledge, and a cave beyond it. Dara was there, waiting for us on the ledge.” His jaw sets, muscle twitching at the back. “She didn’t know me.”

“A Logrus image of her then, before she left Chaos, and before you met,” Merlin says. Martin lifts one shoulder, lets it fall.

“Perhaps,” he says. “It couldn’t be a Pattern image. That was after we met.” Martin nods at Merlin. “And after she met your dad.”

It’s a tiny, subtle dig, but I’m proud of my son nonetheless. Merlin’s fingers twitch at the statement.

“Please don’t remind me,” Merlin mutters.

“That I knew your mother before Corwin did?” Martin stresses the word _knew_ so quietly that I could have missed it. But I was looking for it, staying a step ahead of my son as he took these small steps in the family game.

Interesting to know that somehow my son loved Dara before Corwin. It makes me wonder if he loves her still.

Odd to think about, given the few stories Merlin’s told of his domineering mother. They don’t match up with the sweet, innocent girl Corwin once met.

Of course, my son isn’t a naive farm boy, either.

“So you met a Logrus ghost of Dara on the ledge,” Merlin says, ignoring the implications that Martin laid out.

There’s a small smile from Martin, as if he knows he’s won the point. “She was waiting for us, and she said we shouldn’t enter. That she was charged to protect what lay within. We insisted, and after some argument she agreed that I could go alone, but that the others couldn’t enter. No one of the Logrus was allowed inside, save herself.”

Merlin’s gaze narrows. “Why?”

“Because Brand was in there. A ghost of Brand.” The words trip quickly, and Merlin frowns when Martin speaks, as if hearing a lie.

I hear the potential clearly. More importantly, I see the reasoning behind it. “How could the Pattern place a ghost of Brand within the Abyss?” I ask.

They both look at me.

“There was a ghost of the Logrus there. It’s far, but it’s neutral ground. Void,” Martin points out.

“It makes sense,” Merlin agrees. “Or perhaps a Trump ghost. At the end, I think Brand was more Trump than human.”

“There’s another possibility,” I point out, because I know they have to see it. I know that if they think on it, for even a moment or two, they’ll arrive at the same conclusion that has come to me. In fact, I suspect that Martin is already there.

Merlin blinks, sits back, upright. “Brand took the Logrus while he was allied with Chaos,” he says slowly. “That’s why no one of the Logrus could enter.”

Wrong. Someone of the Pattern could injure someone of the Logrus. Martin was a danger to any Logrus ghost, Dara included, at least from what I knew.

Merlin isn’t thinking, or he doesn’t want to see the truth.

Brand can’t be a Pattern ghost; he’s too far from Amber. I doubt the Fountain made him into a ghost of his own Trump, and I highly doubt that the Logrus would recreate him, even if he could survive such a thing.

But I’m not going to be the one to speak the truth, not when my own son is avoiding it.

“What did Brand have to say?” I ask instead.

“He apologized,” Martin says, low and soft. He hunches his shoulders, curling in on himself, as if to protect his abdomen. “He apologized for trying to kill me.”

As pronouncements go, it wasn’t what I was expecting at all.

Merlin pushes to his feet, paces away, pushing fingers through his hair. “So what you’re telling me is there’s no reason for the Abyss to be coughing up fire, and we have ghosts infecting the Void.” He turns back, spreads his hands as if to ask for more.

Martin swallows, stiffens his posture. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Merlin drops his head back on a frustrated sigh. “That’s not what I needed to hear. You want to jump in again someday? Maybe take someone official along for the ride. I can probably convince Jurt to go with you. Or Mandor.”

“Not Mandor.” The response is too quick, enough that it makes Merlin target Martin with a querying look. Martin stands slowly, that muscle at the back of his jaw bunched and set again. “Give me some time to recover. I don’t think the Abyss is going anywhere,” he says. “I’ll make a plan, bring it to you for your official kingly approval.”

“Do you think it affects Amber?” I ask, and he glances down at me. There’s no reason to rise; they both recognize my authority even while they both stand over me.

Martin’s gaze drifts to one side. “Possibly,” he admits.

Probably, I decide.

In fact, given the way he avoids my eyes, almost definitely.

I leverage myself up, coming to my feet far more slowly than either of them. I’m old, yes, but I’m not that old. I’m as quick as I was at their age, but it helps if they remember just how I outrank them, in years and experience both.

“Merlin, reach out to me when you’re ready to make another attempt,” I order. “In the meantime, I feel certain that Fiona’s been continuing to spend time with Mandor. I believe she appreciates the worship.” My smile is thin. I need to keep on top of that particular relationship. I trust neither of them, and the godlike pedestal upon which Mandor places Fiona does not bode well for anyone. “Keep me apprised of any developments.”

Merlin holds out his hand, and I clasp it firmly. He has me by several inches in height, but I don’t shrink away, meeting his gaze directly while I grip his hand, squeezing slightly. I can’t hurt him, but a show of power is always called for in situations such as this. When we each release the other, he steps back while I hold my ground.

“Martin,” I say.

He glances at me. “Yeah, Dad?”

“I don’t feel like going home yet, and I think Vialle has everything well in hand. She’ll tell me if she doesn’t, anyway.” I gesture as if I’m pointing at something in particular, as if the world doesn’t simply fall to chaos in every direction around us. “Let’s get a drink.”

Uncertainty in his expression. Since when is my son afraid to be alone with me?

Martin glances at Merlin. “You want to come?”

Merlin laughs, shakes his head, puts both his hands up and takes another step away. “Can’t,” he says. “The Abyss isn’t my only complication, and I still have at least a half a dozen of them that I need to look at before I sleep again,” he tells us. “Go, have fun, and have at least one drink for me. Want me to have Ghost send you someplace good?”

It would be convenient, but the last thing I want is for Merlin’s omniscient ball of Trump to be listening in on my conversation. “No, thanks. We can walk.”

“Actually.” Martin pulls something out of his pocket, shuffles a card from the deck. Some of the cards look like the usual, with our unicorn emblazoned on the back. At least half are absolutely unfamiliar. He puts them away before I get a good look, and cradles the one in his hand so I can’t see more than the image on the front.

There is something familiar in it, but I can’t identify the hand that drew it. Art was never my forte, but I’m beginning to think I should become more of a connoisseur. Damn strange cards are popping up everywhere I go.

I keep my voice bland. “If it’s a good bar and we can play, I’m in.”

Martin stares at the card, holds out his hand for me. When I clasp his hand, palm to palm, I hear the noise burgeon around me. It is, indeed, a bar, full of good cheer and conversation. Martin steps forward and carries me with him, and we leave Chaos behind.

#

If I’d ever had any doubt that Martin’s my kid—even looking as he does—that’d end when I hear him play. He’s got an instinctive touch with the sax, kind of like I feel with the drums. Like the sticks are an extension of my body, and the music is a part of my soul that’s going to come out.

Yeah, it’s poetic as fuck, I know. Point is: my boy’s just as lucky, just as musically inclined, and just as good at keeping his liquor down as I am, and he’s only almost as scrawny. I like hanging out with him.

Makes me wonder what my father saw in me that he avoided me as much as he did.

We play for hours, just a pick up jam in a joint at the end of the world. The wait staff plies us with drinks, while we have different musicians stopping in to play with us. I drum, as I always do, and Martin shifts between the sax and some eight-stringed instrument similar to a short-necked guitar. We both stand out like a beacon—him with his mohawk flopping in his face, me in my bright colors. We don’t care. If people can notice us, they can join us, and the hours melt away in music and drink.

I can feel the faint buzz in my ears that says the drink here is potent enough for an Amberite, and I should slow down eventually. For the moment, though, I’m thirsty and call for another round as we retire to a table on our own. Martin bequeathes the string instrument to another man, who plays with deft fingers, accompanied by a young woman who doesn’t drum nearly as well as I do.

Martin leans back in his chair, sweeps his limp mohawk back from his face as he kicks his feet on the table. We both sit to one side, the wall to our backs, our view of the place easy. He raises his glass, and I drink to whatever mental toast he’s made.

I set my glass upon the table, glance over at my son. Given how much he’s had to drink, there’s a chance that if I do a little subtle digging, I’ll strike gold. Easiest place to start is that moment when he came out of the Abyss.

“So,” I say. “Marble.”

He hesitates, his glass in mid-motion, pausing before he sets it down. “Granite,” he replies slowly. “Sometimes. Mostly when I’m in danger. It’s the only form I’ve been able to hold so far, but it’s progress.”

“If you’re happy, then I’m happy.” He seems to relax under my approval, and I take another long gulp of my drink. “Might come in handy, depending on how long you stay in the Courts.”

That muscle in his jaw goes tight. I should let him know that I’ve marked his tell, but it’s useful to me right now. And a father needs a few secrets.

I decide it’s time to lay cards on the table, see if showing my hand gets me anything good in return. “You’ve been there for a while already. How’s Dara?”

He licks his lips. “She’s not my Dara.” The muscle at the back of his jaw twitches; his fingers flex, then curl back into fists. “Merlin thinks she’s the Dara I met—that his father met—but she’s not.”

“People do change,” I point out, curious about this idea that Martin has. “Particularly at that end of things. Remember, Benedict sired Dara’s grandmother in the middle of a war, and by not much later in that same war, Dara had already grown to adulthood. Time is a tricky thing, and it is never consistent in Chaos.”

“I’ve lived there for months now,” Martin points out. “I’ve spent time with Merlin, with his brothers, with his father. Even some time with Dara, although she tends to avoid me. I’ve heard Corwin’s story of her from Merlin, and from the man himself.” He snorts derisively. “He had no idea why I was asking, and was only too interested in telling his story. I know you like him, but he’s self-involved, isn’t he?”

“Most of us are, in our own ways,” I agree. “If you know how to use it, it makes the game easier to play.”

Martin’s grin is bright and sharp. “I know.” He finishes his drink, calls for another. “The point is, Corwin said that Dara told him that she was the first of her line to bear all the marks of humanity. And of course, that makes Merlin the second.”

“But?” I encourage. There’s no point in offering my own opinion in this moment.

“But Dara—the one who raised Merlin—doesn’t appear to be fully human.” Martin leans forward, gestures at my face as if to make a point. “She’s close. Close enough that Merlin probably doesn’t even notice, because he’s used to Chaos. But she’s like talking to Mandor, or Jurt, or Despil, or any of the others who come close to humanity, but fall just that tiny bit short. Proportions that seem alien. Extra knuckles, foreshortened limbs. Something that doesn’t quite measure up to what we know.”

“Do you honestly think that Corwin would have noticed if Dara weren’t entirely human?” Because from what I remember, Corwin was only concerned with a few things at the time, and one of those was a desire to get in her pants. And Corwin was never really known for being picky about his attractions.

“I would have,” Martin says quietly. His feet fall from the table and he leans forward, elbows on the hard wood. “Corwin spent a few days with her. I spent months. The entirety of my recuperation after Brand stabbed me. All that time and more, just me and Dara. In some very intimate ways. And the Dara that I knew passed as human.”

It’s not a question that I really want to ask, but as both father and monarch I feel I have to. “Is there any chance that you’re—?”

“Dara and I parted ways before she met Corwin, so no, Merlin’s not my son,” Martin says flatly. “Besides. I always knew she had a plan, and I wasn’t it. I wasn’t close enough to the throne of Amber.”

“You didn’t think to tell Benedict?” I ask, even though I know there are a dozen quick, easy reasons why he might not.

“I thought he was in on it,” Martin says, and yes, that’s one of the most obvious. Either because Benedict was Dara’s grandfather, or simply because Dara said he was. “Besides, it’s all in the past now. The point is, they’re not the same Dara. There are two Daras.”

“And Merlin never knew?”

“How would he? You’ve met his Dara, and do you really think he’d go looking to see if she has any of the Pattern in her? Dad.” Martin shakes his head. “She’s not the one who walked the Pattern. And I’d bet that most of them don’t know. Mandor, probably. I’d say even Fiona knows. And Brand.”

Here we come, full circle into the conversation I want to have. “That was your Dara you met in the Abyss.”

Martin swallows. “Yes. Same Dara, but before I met her.”

“And that was not a ghost of Brand.”

There are times when a person should thrust and parry, spar with words and see what openings might come. And then there are times when one should charge in and make the attempt to draw blood.

I’ve drawn blood.

I can see him working out his answer, but it takes too long, and he knows it. I raise a hand, call for more drinks as he swallows the rest of his down.

“Can he get out?” I asked.

Martin shakes his head. “He’s stuck. The Abyss sustains him. If he’s not there, he’s dead.”

“And Deirdre?” Because Corwin will want to know, if I ever get around to telling him this story.

“Dead.” Martin looks down at his hands on the table, his jaw tight again. “Brand was able to cut a deal with the Abyss. He needed to stay alive, and it needed him.”

“And are you his agent now?” I spread my hands when he looks at me. “We’ve had agents of the Unicorn and of the Serpent. Why not one for Brand on behalf of the Abyss?”

“It’s not like that.” Martin looks away. “We talked. He knew about both Daras.”

“So, it’s not just a theory.” I have an idea where this might be going, and how Brand got his hooks into my son this time around. “He knows where to find your Dara.”

“He had an idea, yes.”

“Do you think you can trust him?”

Martin pulls a deck of cards from his pocket, idly shuffles through it. He deals out three cards, face down—two with the unicorn of Amber on the back, one with a rising phoenix. He flips them one at a time: Corwin, Brand, and Dara as Corwin first described her. He lifts the last, shows it to me. “In this much, yes,” he says. “He’s the only person who knew her who can also make a Trump. And he has.”

I don’t need the cards of Corwin or Brand; I have their mates in my pocket. I pick up the one of Dara, run my thumb across the cold, slick surface of the Trump. Her hair is cut short, brown and slightly feathered where it swings along the sides of her face. Her freckles are bright against pale skin, limbs gangly, as she seems about to spin, ready to speak. There’s a sense of arrested motion in the image, and I half expect her to jump out of the card.

I have to admit that I see what the attraction probably was for Corwin. She’s not my type, but she’s definitely his, all leggy and dangerous. Of course, I know better than to fall for a relative. Corwin failed that before I was ever born.

I set the card down on the table, let my hand smack on top of it. I slide it toward Martin, center it on the wooden tabletop and keep my fingers spread across the bottom of the card. “Fine. Let’s get in touch with your Dara. Maybe she’s ready for a good pub night. You can woo her with your saxophone.”

His eyes widen slightly, nostrils flaring as he inhales. I’ve surprised him, which means he either doesn’t trust that I’m on his side, or thinks Dara is enough of a risk to Amber that we shouldn’t do this.

I’m not retracting this decision now. Plan’s been made, only way to go is forward. I tap my fingers in a quick rhythm across her cold face. “Are you going to help me, or am I doing this on my own?”

His fingers land across from mine quickly, his expression shuttering. We both focus on the card before us and reach out.

There’s no resistance, and no sense of denial or acceptance. One moment the card is chill and silent, the next we’re watching her speak, mid-sentence, as if she has no idea we’re there.

She doesn’t look a thing like her card. Her cheeks are rounder, her face more full. Her hair is long, curled across her shoulders with a hint of a red sheen. The freckles are gone, replaced by deeply tanned skin. She speaks with fluid motion, both hands in the air, gesturing with every word as she directs her attention to someone just out of sight.

“I know, right?” she says, and Martin blinks slightly, spreads his fingers as if he’s about to reach through.

I grip his wrist to stop the motion. I shake my head, and his replying expression is mutinous as he pushes forward again. My kid is strong, pulling away from me but barely breaking the surface of the card.

We’ve made contact, yes, but we can’t reach her.

“Dara!” Martin calls out.

She stops walking, cradles a pile of books to her chest as her brow furrows and she glances around. “Did you hear that?” A pause, and she clutches the books more tightly. “It sounded like someone yelled in my ear. Dara—that’s what they said. I can’t think why.” She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, starts walking again, taking a few quick steps to catch up with her unseen companion. “Of course I’m going to practice. I’m planning on winning this weekend. I’m the best fencer they’ve ever had on this campus. I’m not quitting now just because I’ve got one class kicking my ass.” A small snort. “And because I’m hearing voices, fine. It was just the once, Marco. I’m not insane.”

“Dara,” Martin whispers.

Her back goes stiff, and she touches her ear, but doesn’t look around again.

Martin presses his fingertips against the card, and once again, they go nowhere. I pull my hand back, letting him pass his hand across the image and cut the connection.

“That was strange,” I muse, calling out for another drink.

Martin gathers up the Trump from the table, shuffles them into his deck before sliding it back in his pocket. “And not reassuring.”

We have options right now, but I’m not the one driving this train. Martin needs to make some decisions, both about what to do, and who he wants to include. “So. What next?”

Martin leans back, kicks his feet up on the table. When our server approaches, he holds out his hand and takes his drink, swallows half of it down in one gulp. “How good a look did you get at where she was?”

“You sure that’s her?” I have to point it out.

He lowers his glass, lips pressed thin. “I made it a point to learn as much as I could about Trump after I came back to Amber.” His words are short and sharp, clipped. “And there’s a lot we don’t know, like why Corwin didn’t respond for all those years on Earth. If she’s responding, she’s still Dara—her Trump isn’t going to connect to someone else. But she also obviously isn’t herself, at the same time.”

“On the other hand, she isn’t as far gone as Corwin was, so no one should have to resort to electroshock therapy,” I say dryly.

“Or it’s something different that we don’t know how to deal with.” Martin knocks back the rest of his drink, lets the chair fall with a thunk as he drops the glass on the table. “I’m going there.”

I stay put, wait for him to acknowledge both his father and his king. When he does, he crosses his arms, waits.

“I feel lucky,” I say, to see if he draws the logical conclusion.

“Lucky enough to get us to that shadow?” Martin counters, and I smile, because that’s my boy. “I got a good look, but I’ll be going on instinct.”

“It looked enough like the place where Corwin was stuck that I can get us that far easily, and we can use a bit of shadow trickery to find her after that.” I’m not sure it’ll actually be that easy. Something blocked us from reaching her through that card, and I’m pretty damned sure it’s not the first time Martin’s sought her in shadow.

There’s a broken note in Martin’s eyes; this is more important to him than he’s willing to talk about. I’ll give him that, let it be for the moment.

I have my own ideas about how this could benefit Amber in the long run. There’s no point in spooking my son by bringing it up too soon.

#

We obtain a car—a low, sleek black thing with a wide carriage and great speed—and start to make our way through shadow. Martin drives while I focus on the world around us, subtracting the lavender skies and shifting them to blue.

Most of my attention is on the path through shadow, but I can see him out of the corner of my eyes. After an hour or two, I realize that his hair is different, cut evenly without the mohawk on top, and the bright color has faded to his usual tones. The studs are gone from his jacket, although it’s still black leather. And a watch is on his wrist instead of the studded leather bands.

He flexes his fingers as he feels my regard. “I figured I could take care of a few things while you did the heavy lifting.”

“You want her to recognize you.” A bird flies past my vision, and its plumage is too long, too yellow. I look away from it, deciding that there will be another one as Martin rounds the upcoming curve. It sits in the branches of a tree, high above us, and it’s almost the right kind.

It’s too quick, and too easy.

“Just drive for a while,” I say, slouching down in the seat and crossing my arms. “I want to close my eyes for a bit. Give me something suitable—jeans and a t-shirt—while you’re at it. The Ramones. You’ve seen mine.”

I don’t want to sleep, and obviously I can’t shift, not with my eyes closed. But I can feel Shadow all around me, get a sense of the path we take through it. Each of my siblings has their innate skill, the thing at which they’re best. For Gerard, it’s strength, and Benedict has war. Corwin isn’t quite best at anything, save perhaps romance. Fiona understands the mystical better than any of us, and Brand, of course, had his Trump.

For me, everyone knows I’m lucky. The thing is, it isn’t just luck. It’s Shadow.

For my siblings, they just want to travel through it. Get from one place to another, have it serve them well in finding the thing that they desire at the moment.

You have to remember, I was the youngest. The one that was always underfoot, often detested. I spent my time in Amber, yes, far too much if you ask me. But I also spent a lot of time in Shadow. It was my playground, and it was also my plaything. I worked hard to understand it. Not just to manipulate it as they do, but to mold it to my desire. It wasn’t enough to find the thing I wanted; I had to make it become what I needed.

But as good as I am with Shadow, this path is too simple. Too slick. Every shift I make takes us several jumps forward.

It feels like Shadow lures us in, which means we more than likely aren’t going in the correct direction at all.

With my eyes closed, I can’t see the world around me in order to shift. I can feel it though, can smell the subtle differences. I bring the Pattern to my mind, and it burns brightly behind my closed eyes, flickering around the edges.

There’s a shift, and it flickers again.

“Stop changing things,” I say quietly.

“I stopped long ago,” Martin replies. There’s music in the background, and when I open my eyes, our car is different. Baby blue, with a faux wood dashboard, and a ragtop that’s folded back to leave us warm under the heavy white sun hanging in a lavender sky.

I got rid of that sky; now it’s back again.

He dressed me, at least. Ripped brown jeans, a black and red Ramones t-shirt. My drumsticks are shoved into a pocket, poking at me. I get them out, roll them across my fingers, limbering up.

“You were out for about an hour. I’ve just been driving for the last forty-five minutes.”

I make a small noise, because it didn’t feel like that to me. “We’re back under a lavender sky,” I point out, as a bird shrieks overhead, bright yellow plumage trailing as it flies. “You circled back.”

“I haven’t done anything other than shift for clothes,” Martin insists. “I held our path.”

“And our path held you,” I muse. “She’s guarded, and we’re blocked from finding her in any easy way.” It’s reminiscent of what Eric did when he blocked the way to Amber, cut Earth off from it the first time, only without the dangerous traps and beasts.

It’s almost polite the way it works. I gently nudge us onto the path I want toward the Earth where we believe Dara is; something gently nudges us back until we have brilliant colored birds overhead in a lavender sky.

It’s annoying as fuck, too.

Martin pulls over, stops the car. His brow furrows. “We don’t have enough gas to keep going in circles.”

“We’ll be fine until we find a place to fill up.” If it were just me, and Shadow, and a direct path to our destination, I’d be sure of that statement. As it is, I’m not sure I can make good on it this time around. But I’ll try. If it’s up to me, we won’t run out of gas. “The problem is, someone’s put a barrier around Dara. If we weren’t aiming to go directly there, we probably wouldn’t even notice it.”

“Instead it’s like a glaring red sign saying _don’t go this way_ ,” Martin mutters.

“Exactly.” I pause only for a moment before I glance at him sideways. “Don’t know if you know this about me, but I was never very good with people trying to keep me from doing something.”

“Yeah, but how do we get through?” Martin gestures at the road, and it looks exactly the same as it has. Same hills, same trees, same damned bird.

“Are you ready for a bumpy ride?” I sit up, drum a riff on the dashboard, then flip one stick, catching it and pointing forward. “I want you to go as fast as you can. Whatever you see, whatever comes at us, don’t stop. I’m going to shuffle Shadow like a deck of cards.”

He blinks at me. “Dad. You’re not Ghostwheel.”

No, I’m not Merlin’s dangerous little creation. I’m something much worse. I jab into the air. “Drive, Martin. If you want to find Dara, drive.”

Corwin tells people about his hellrides, and they’re fucking poetic. Broad shifts like expressive modern art. I’m not that delicate.

Martin guns the engine, and we roar down the road. His jaw is tight, teeth clenched as hard as his fingers wrapped around the wheel. I see a hint of marbled lines in his skin. I can’t blame him for wanting to be indestructible, if he can pull it off.

There’s traffic ahead of us abruptly, and that’s the sign I need. I pull us away from that damned lavender sky, darkening it brutally and dragging in black skies and thick clouds. Thunder booms, and rain starts to pour down on us.

Tires skid, and Martin fights the wheel; it’s yanked from his hands as we slide off the road, into a swift spin. There’s a tree too close, and I shift us sideways until we’re skidding over ice, rain turned to hail.

“I don’t think this is helping!” Martin yells

I don’t have time to argue with him. That bird—that damned bird—is still overhead like some yellow beacon that signals the gate to our trap. I close my eyes briefly, visualize exactly what I want, and when I open them I point to the left. Martin wrestles the car under control and we shoot forward, onto a dirt path and under trees.

Snow is gone, replaced by thick blackness. Thankfully the hail is gone, too. It’s almost impossible to see, but there’s just enough light to let me visualize it.

“The trees are too thick, Dad.”

“We aren’t going to hit any.” I need him to trust me and just keep driving. We’re punching through the fabric of Shadow now, six or seven at a time, if not more. We’re leaping from Shadow to Shadow, not worrying about the ones in between.

Something caws loudly overhead, a black bird dive bombing the car, gone as fast as it appears. Better. Much better.

We burst out of the trees, tires squealing as Martin spins the car once before we get onto the road, heading into the sun. It hangs low in the sky, the right shade of yellow, burning bright and chill in the fall air. Trees line the road, hanging onto the remains of brown, yellow, and red leaves.

I always did love autumn along the northeast coast of the US on Corwin’s Earth. It’s like it was made for my colors.

The blue sky stretches with few clouds. I gesture, and Martin slows down. We pass a sign that says Burlington, and I suggest we turn off there. Martin finds a gas station and we pull in, filling up what is now very definitely a classic Mustang.

I idly tap a beat on the dashboard, lifting one drumstick to the girl walking by, her mouth slightly open.

Martin leans on the car. “Do you think we’re here?”

“I think we’re as close as we’re going to get,” I say. “That felt like ripping a hole in the fabric of the world. Hard part is, I’m betting it won’t be that easy to get back out.”

That’s right, we’re just as trapped as Dara now. Pleasant thought, isn’t it?

Martin finishes topping off the gas, reaches into his pocket and draws out a wad of bills and coins. He heads into the convenience store, returning with a bag of chips and some drinks. I drain my bottle dry, sink down in my seat and close my eyes.

“What next, Dad?” he asks.

I shrug. “You know her. It’s time for you to find her. I’m guessing she’s right around here. This looks like Corwin’s Earth, but it isn’t. It’s smaller. More localized. There was only one entry point and this is it, which means Dara’s caught somewhere vaguely logical in this microcosm of space.”

I crack open one eye. The car in front of us has a sticker that proudly proclaims UVM. I gesture at it with the stick. “There. She said campus, and I’d bet that one’s local. Looks like we’re going to college, kid.”

#

We don’t find Dara, but we do find a hell of a crowd.

It seems like most of campus is at some kind of fall carnival. Half of them are wearing masks, half have on cloaks and costumes. People push past us, rushing to get somewhere. Possibly the rides set up on one half of the field, a rickety ferris wheel towering above us. Possibly the food carts I can smell at the other end.

There are games of chance, and when I pause to consider one, Martin grabs my elbow.

“We need to find Dara, Dad,” he reminds me, voice low.

He’s got a point.

“This is where I’d normally rely on a healthy dose of luck and Shadow serving up what I need, but I don’t think we can do that here,” I tell him. “I’ve tried shifting, and can’t. No extra money in our pockets; all we’ve got is what we came in with. And everything changed with us on the way in. It all fits.”

“So we’re not going to be able to Shadow shift back out,” Martin says.

Yeah. Exactly what I’d explained earlier. Dara might be trapped in this particular web, but we’re the stupid bugs that went and climbed in after her.

Vialle is going to kill me when she hears about this one. Of course, first I have to make it home to have that conversation.

“Sounds like we have to do it the hard way.” Martin shoves his hands in his pockets, twists in place. “We could split up.”

“And lose track of each other in this trap? We haven’t tried Trump yet, and I’m not sure I want to open myself up to anything right now. No, kid, we stick together.” It’s not like we stick out. We look like any other kid on campus at this point. Maybe a little less wholesome, but we fit in enough. “Let’s just start looking. Redheads stick out, and that’s what the girl looked like last time we saw her.”

If we stop long enough to eat sausage and peppers, following it up with fried dough, I don’t think it impacts anything. It’s easier to think once we’re not hungry.

I spot her from a distance, her arm linked with a dark-haired boy’s as they lean close together. I nudge Martin, and we move to intercept them, trailing behind them in the crowd.

“Where do you think they’re going?” Martin frowns, looks ahead. “There’s a funhouse. Do you think that’s where she’s heading? We’ll lose track of her in there.”

He’s going to be an idiot. I know it the moment before he runs forward, yelling out, “Dara!”

She hesitates, just for a moment, shoulders inching up as she tenses. Then she pushes forward with her friend. They relinquish tickets at the gate, hurrying in through the door of the rickety building.

Martin has to pause for a ticket if he doesn’t want to make a scene. It gives me time to catch up with him, and we go in together.

“She recognized the name,” I say quietly. “Maybe not because she knows it, probably from when we tried to contact her.”

The building seems larger on the inside, like the Shadow’s twisted in on itself. I don’t like it.

Martin strides forward into the foyer, picks the exit on the left. “This way.”

“Why?”

He glances back. “Why not?”

Can’t argue with that reasoning.

Except, as it turns out, I should’ve argued with it.

We walk into a hall that’s lined by mirrors. Not a narrow, winding hall with mirrors only on the walls to right and left, but there are openings as well, dark spaces that lead to more mirrors beyond, until they reflect back on us in confusing ways.

Martin gets a few steps ahead of me, turns left, and I lose sight of him. By the time I get there, I see his reflection somewhere off to my right. I know which way he went, so I step into the darkness to my left instead. It’s a momentary pitch black hall, wider than arms’ width when I reach out. I follow it until it twists to the right and opens into a room full of mirrors.

We are definitely not alone here.

I see Dara, reddish hair curling over her shoulders, swishing as she turns, eyes wide. “Marco!” she calls out, one hand reaching before pulling back abruptly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bump into you.”

For a moment I think it’s going to be Martin, but it’s some other girl I don’t recognize.

I can’t even see my son in the sea of mirrors. I see a dark-haired boy I suspect is Marco, reflected a half-dozen times in different places. I see the other girl, and I see at least three versions of Dara. There are a handful of others as well, and I wonder how many of us are trapped in this maze.

“Dad!”

Martin’s voice, short and sharp. “What?” I call back, heading toward one of the Daras.

“This isn’t normal.” His voice again, lower. Even and careful. No one else seems to pay attention to him around the rise of excited chatter and people calling names.

“No, it’s not.” The voice answers from behind me, and I turn slowly. She smiles at me from the mirror, her face visible among the flames that lick at her skin, as they consume her or perhaps she becomes them.

“Dara,” I say, because this is the one I know from Chaos. The one who raised Merlin, the one who Martin claims is not the one he loved.

“Why does the King of Amber venture into Shadow now?” she asks. “Don’t you know that the only safe place to be is home? Your wife waits for you, with news.”

“You’re not real,” I reply, and she laughs, the brittle sound reflecting off the mirrors.

“Dad.” Martin’s voice again. Wary, his visage still unseen within the mirrors.

“I know,” I say. “I’m pretty sure it followed us here.”

“Or it’s what’s being used to trap her,” he tells me.

The logic is strangely sound. “That’s a possibility. How do you plan to deal with it?”

Dara the elder still smiles at me, polite and bland for all that she’s aflame. “Yes, Random,” she whispers. “How could you possibly handle such a trap?”

“The only way out is through,” Martin says.

That is a really bad idea.

I turn quickly, heading toward his voice. “Martin!” I yell out, and there’s laughter around me. Joyous laughter, of young adults basking in the ridiculousness of being lost in a maze of mirrors. “Martin!” I yell again, pushing through the twists and turns.

I bump into someone, ignoring his chiding _hey, dude_. There is nothing more important than finding Martin right now.

I emerge from the mirrors into a small anteroom full of light and rainbows. Our red-headed Dara is there, with Marco, speaking quietly and intently. They spare me no glance, clasping hands as they head for another door, presumably escaping from this place.

“Random.”

I turn back at the sound of Corwin’s voice. He’s young in the one mirror I can see inside the place, Greyswandir in his hand, saluting me. “I’ve heard you’ve become king,” he says. “Tell me which is more important: the crown or your son?”

He fades from view as a small knot of people come out. When I try to push back through into the mirrors, more flood out, blocking my way.

“Dude, this is the exit.” It’s the same kid I bumped into before, and I’m tempted to remind him that I am the King of Amber and he is nothing to me.

But I might be here a while, and killing random students isn’t going to help me. I leave with the crowd, circling back to buy another ticket and make my way inside once more.

The mirrors are merely mirrors, easy to navigate, with no depths of darkness, and nothing speaking from within the reflections.

Martin is gone, and on top of that, I’ve lost track of the Dara we’ve been chasing.

#

I find a place of some privacy. I have a feeling that this isn’t going to be as simple as disappearing in a swath of rainbows, and I may have to return here if I make it out. I want to be at least somewhat circumspect, for once in my life.

I shuffle through my deck and find the card Dworkin made of my wife, by my recent request. She sits at her table, hands working the clay before her into a bust. The face has yet to come clear in the clay, but I remember that at the time, she worked an image of Martin for me. It seems apropos in this moment to remember that.

I touch the card, concentrate on it fully. While it is cold, there is no hint of contact; Vialle’s mind remains closed to me from here.

It’s no less than I expected, and yet, it still disappoints and frustrates me.

The next card is chosen with trepidation. I know why I choose it, and I don’t like it, but sometimes you have to deal with the evil in order to get what you want. I reach out for Merlin, but he’s not who I expect to get on the line. “Ghostwheel,” I say, knowing full well that the miscreant machine listens in on his father’s Trump calls. “Help me reach Merlin.”

It punches through so abruptly that the card feels like ice to my fingertips. Merlin’s eyes go wide as he comes to life in front of me. “Random,” he says. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“I’m stuck in Shadow chasing someone down for Martin, and he just stepped into a mirror and disappeared. I need your help,” I say, sticking my hand out. “And Ghost.”

Merlin doesn’t have time to take my hand; something gold swirls around me, and I am deposited in front of him. Given that we’re in his bedchambers, I don’t think Merlin planned on receiving guests right now.

The gold circlet of light hangs over Merlin’s shoulders. “Hey, Dad,” it says.

“Next time, give me a minute, Ghost,” Merlin says dryly.

At least he’s dressed.

Merlin gestures and we head into a sitting room. I dig the drumsticks out of my pocket, fall onto the sofa and lean forward, tapping them on the table. It settles my mind to feel the rhythm in my fingertips, gives me a moment to gather my thoughts and figure out how to tell this story.

Not to mention my next steps.

“Ghostwheel.” I hate to do this, but damn it, I need the thing. “How long have I been gone from Amber?”

It flickers out, then back. “About a week. Vialle doesn’t seem worried, if that’s your concern.”

“I don’t think you’re an expert in reading people.” I gesture to Merlin. “Paper and a writing implement, please. I want to send a note.”

I could Trump. I could even go back to Amber. In fact, I should probably do at least one of those things, and this is likely the coward’s way out.

But my fear is that if I do one of those, Amber will find a way to suck me back in, fit the crown atop my head and shove it down until I can no longer ignore my kingly responsibilities. If I want to find Martin, this is the best way to go about it.

I write a quick note reassuring Vialle that I love her, and that I am safe, and I have things yet to do at the Chaos end of things. I promise to return as soon as I can, and pledge my faith to her. As if I’d stray. I would have, once upon a time, but she holds my heart and my body now, and well she knows it.

Ghost disappears once I hand him the note, with instructions to deliver it to Vialle’s handmaiden, Celia, so that she may read it to Vialle.

“Are you going to tell me what this is about?” Merlin asks. He reclines in his chair, feet kicked up on the coffee table, hands steepled with his finger in front of his nose. The purple dressing gown he wears falls in a spill to show his grey pajamas.

Dressed, yes. Formally, no.

“I expected a t-shirt and boxers,” I say.

He grins. “Chaos expects something different. If I expect to be interrupted, I usually sleep in a different form entirely. Humanity still confuses people here, sometimes.”

“I see.” And I do. It’s yet another reminder that this place is utterly different from ours, and it’s strange that we’ve stemmed from this root.

Still, Merlin is my nephew, and as the King of Chaos, my peer.

He also may be the only person who can help me find my son right now. And if doing that means telling him things he’s not ready to hear, then that’s what I’ll do.

“What did you say about Martin?” Merlin asks. “And are you hungry? I just got up, so breakfast is on my mind.”

“I could eat.”

He does something complicated that I can feel more than see, then the coffee table is set with a spread to make any monarch jealous. Merlin fixes a plate of smoked meats, pastries, and fruit. I take a fruit that looks like a pear and bite into it; it’s surprisingly spicy and tart, melting on my tongue.

“Martin and I were in Shadow, seeking Dara,” I tell him. He blinks at the name, head cocked as his brow furrows. “We found her, we believe, although she is not exactly herself at this time. As it happens, the Shadow was a trap, and we were caught in it, at least until the Hall of Mirrors intervened, and stole Martin away. I don’t know who he spoke to, or where he went, only that he stepped through it.”

His mouth opens, closes. “Why would you want to find my mother in Shadow?” he finally asks. “Most of the time I find her when I don’t want to. Right here.”

“It’s a complicated story.”

“I have time to hear it.”

Another bite of the pear, taking the time to let it melt in my mouth before swallowing. “Another time,” I say, promising, “Soon. Right now, finding Martin has to be my highest priority.”

He’s going to protest; I would, if I were him. Then he holds up one hand, his gaze going distant.

“Celia was confused, but she will read your note to Vialle.” Ghost hovers between me and Merlin. The circle rotates in place, reorienting itself to hang a little higher. “Don’t mind Merlin. That’s Mandor calling.”

“Wait,” Merlin says aloud. “He’s where?” He reaches out, and Mandor comes through.

The eldest Sawall child spares me a glance. “You could have mentioned you had the King of Amber in your chambers,” Mandor says.

“It’s not what it looks like.” I grab bread, slathering a bright pink spread across the surface.

“It’s exactly what it looks like: breakfast with my uncle,” Merlin responds. “Who would like to hear you repeat exactly what you just said to me a moment ago.”

“The Abyss began to belch fire again at the start of the most recent turning,” Mandor says easily. “Martin arrived moments later, and joined the Pit Divers when they went over the edge. Random,” he addresses me directly. “Your son is in the Abyss.”

#

So here we are again, on the edge of the Abyss. Mandor declined to accompany us, so it’s just me and Merlin. We sit close enough to see the darkness, far enough back that the gouts of fire won’t reach us. Merlin claims he can shield us if the fire reaches further than expected; I know he will do so, at least for the sake of political decency.

Ghost spins in lazy circles just above the Abyss, as if it teases the fire, dodging away at the last second. I’m not sure how the fire could harm the circle of light, but I suppose it could. Sadly, I’m certain Merlin won’t let me find out.

It’s helpful, yes, but I still don’t like—or trust—Ghostwheel.

“We were interrupted,” Merlin says. He leans back on his elbows, then lowers himself to lie upon the rocks, arms crossed over his chest, knees bent. “You were going to tell me a long story about why you needed to find Dara in Shadow, when she’s right here making my life hell on a daily basis.”

“Different Dara.” I cross my legs, sit upright as I stare at the Abyss, waiting for some sign of my son’s return. “If the marble doesn’t protect him—”

“Granite.” Merlin raises his hand and I see the ring upon his finger. “And I’ve already found him and am ready to shield him if he needs it. You don’t need to worry, and we have plenty of time here.”

“Where is he?”

Merlin’s lips press thing together, his arms crossing more tightly. “With T’Riss and Galvin. They’re waiting outside the cave.”

“And he’s inside it.” As I suspected, as soon as I heard he was in the Abyss. It’s something to do with Brand. “Do you want the good news, or the bad news?”

Merlin cranes his head, raises an eyebrow. “Is the good news actually good, or just better than the bad?”

“That depends on how you see it.” I’m not sure any of it is good news, but I’m also sure I can find a way of working it to my advantage. I’ve already had several thoughts on the matter. “So we’ll start with the good. The Dara that you know isn’t your mother.”

She could be listening. Anyone could, if I’m honest, but I’ve decided that it’s unlikely. And even here, at the edge of the Abyss, there is just enough stuff of Shadow to twist to my desire. It isn’t easy, but then, I’m stubborn about things. I’m going to trust my own will, and trust that there are no ears nearby.

To his credit, Merlin’s expression never changes. “And the bad?”

“There are two Daras.”

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as I can be.” I nod at the Abyss. “This is according to Martin, who spent far more time with the younger Dara—your mother—than any of the rest of us, Corwin included.” I decide not to include that Brand spoke in favor of the theory; it’s not time to get into a discussion of exactly how real the Brand in the Abyss happens to be. “The elder Dara is likely your grandmother, and that would be why she does not favor her human form. The younger Dara is trapped in Shadow, imprisoned in a body that I suspect has been somehow shifted, and a mind that does not remember herself.”

“But you found her.” Merlin keeps his voice flat. Even. Good kid, he’s learning the ways of politics, and how to keep from showing his hand. He’s got a chance to make it.

“We did, and now we need to figure out how to get her out without getting trapped there again. I think that’s why Martin’s in there.” It’s the only reason I can think of, that somehow Brand reached through the mirrors to speak with him, to offer more information.

What worries me is the price. Because with a brother like Brand, there is always a price.

“I can get her,” Ghostwheel offers. “I got you.”

I don’t think it’s that simple. “How would you recognize her? You’ve never met her. Besides, that Shadow was meant to hold her. I wasn’t important, so you could subtract me without affecting it. In fact, removing me probably stabilized the Shadow back to the prison it was. You removed a thorn. You aren’t going to be able to just pop in and get her out.”

“I can try.”

The flicker of light blinks out.

I look at Merlin. “I told you to pull the plug.”

His gaze goes hard. “Would you kill Martin if I ordered it, king to king?”

It’s a fair point. “Doesn’t change the fact that it’s dangerous. Martin, at least, doesn’t have the capability to destroy the universe,” I point out, even though I have the feeling I’m lying.

Martin is, after all, busy discussing plans with the one man who was absolutely determined to destroy the universe last time we saw him.

I need to get this subject changed before Merlin follows that line of logic.

“What we need to do is to break the prison,” I muse. “Ghostwheel can get us into the Shadow, and can probably get any of us other than Dara back out. She’s not going to want to come with us, not in her current condition. She doesn’t look like herself, doesn’t act like herself, and she doesn’t remember herself.”

“If you can’t get her to leave the prison, then destroy the prison walls,” Merlin suggests.

Yes. That’s it.

“Dad!”

A dragon opens its claw, deposits Martin at the edge of the Abyss. He’s already running, human by the time he reaches us although smoke rises from his skin. He crouches down in front of us both, as Merlin leverages himself up to propped on one elbow.

“Did you get her out of there?” he asks.

I shake my head. “We were just discussing how to do that. She’s pretty well stuck.”

“We need to stage a prison break,” Merlin says.

“An explosion capable of blowing a hole in the Shadow that’s trapped her?” Martin asks. “Like what you were doing when we traveled there.”

“When I broke through Shadow instead of traveling in a linear way,” I say quietly. “It got us in. It’s going to take a lot more power to blow a hole big enough to get her out.”

We’re all silent for a long moment, considering.

I know the answer before I say it. It’s obvious, once I think of it. Dara was more than likely trapped by the elder Dara, stuck away so that Merlin could be raised in the ways of the Courts, rather than by someone so young and naive. Which means the trap is likely built upon Chaos and vulnerable to the ways of Order.

The problem is, the solution lies trapped as well.

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “We need Coral.”

Merlin glances at Martin, then looks back at me. “Well, you’re in luck, then. Because I know where she is.”

#

“This was not a planned stop on this father/son vacation,” I mutter. Martin snorts, but Merlin doesn’t hear me. He’s too busy greeting Coral and someone who looks suspiciously like Rinaldo, son of Brand.

“Random,” Merlin calls out, motioning me over. We all gather around a classic car, that sits to one side of Corwin’s Pattern.

Yes, the Pattern that Corwin drew when he thought we were all going to die in a wave of Chaos. Apparently I can blame it for every trouble we’ve had since. I’m trying not to think that way too close to it, in case it’s as vindictive as its cousins in Amber and Chaos.

“Random, this is Rinaldo, the Pattern ghost that helps Corwin’s ghost watch over this particular Pattern,” Merlin introduces him. “He and Coral have been hanging out here for a while. Any sign of Corwin?”

“Not yet, but we’re fine for the moment,” Rinaldo replies. He leans against the front bumper of the car, while Coral sits on the hood, her feet drawn up and arms hooked around her bent knees.

Her hair falls in front of her eyes, but nothing can hide the way the Jewel pulses when I draw near.

“It knows you,” she says quietly.

“We had a pretty intimate relationship at the end of the war,” I reply. It took something from me then, and I wonder if it stored it up, kept it within those ruby lines, held for future knowledge. I wonder how much Coral knows of me—and of Corwin, Oberon, Dworkin, and any others who took its path—simply by having it inside of her. “I’m sorry Dworkin did that to you.”

She makes a small noise. “Me too. But I’m coming to terms with it. Besides, it’s been a great excuse to avoid wifely duties in Kashfa that Luke doesn’t want me to bother with anyway.”

“He’s busy with her sister. Well. The ty’iga,” Merlin says. “It’s complicated.”

Merlin moves to Coral’s other side, his hand at the small of her back. It’s complicated, all right, and I don’t need or want to deal with that right now.

“Are you invested in staying in this place?” I ask. “Or would you be willing to take a little side trip, help me destroy a small trap in Shadow?”

“Why me?” she asks, and Merlin raises his hand, lets it fall at the nape of her neck instead.

Yeah, she’s not going to like this.

“I need the Jewel to take it apart.” I’m not in the mood to beat around the bush. “You have the Jewel, I can’t exactly ask to borrow it, therefore I’m inviting you on a road trip. Can’t promise much, but I’m pretty sure that parts of it might get exciting.”

“I really don’t think whoever locked Dara away is going to be thrilled about her getting free,” Martin says.

“Your mother?” Rinaldo asks, and Merlin shakes his head.

“That’s another complicated story.”

“Please.” Martin’s voice is low, sincere. “I don’t think she’s being hurt, but she’s locked up for a reason, and I don’t think it’s for anything good.”

Merlin raises his free hand. “I suspect it’s to manipulate me. And to be honest, it doesn’t surprise me all that much to find out that both my mother and father were locked away. It’s starting to sound like par for the course.”

“Trust no one,” Coral says softly. Merlin squeezes her hand.

She’s got it right, though. Trust no one, especially the people you thought were on your side. Feels like they’ll all screw you in the end.

“So, are we going to do this?” I ask.

Coral slides off the hood of the car, brushes dust from her trousers. When she straightens, her hair falls back and she regards me with one unblinking eye and the Jewel. It shines, beats in time with her heart. I swear I can feel it looking through me.

“Yes,” she finally says.

“Ghost!” Merlin calls out, and the ring of light is there, on the ground and expanding.

“Hop in,” Ghost tells us. “I can get you there. The rest is up to you.”

#

Ghost deposits us on the outskirts of UVM, near where he found me the last time. The carnival is gone, the ground still littered with stray containers and confetti, and random plastic cups. I’m not sure how much time has passed, but no one has bothered to clean up.

Coral looks around, her expression closed off. “I don’t like this place.”

“Had a feeling you wouldn’t.” I reach for the Jewel and it reaches back, twisting into my chest and holding on tight. I can’t breathe for a moment, then it lets go and I can relax. Yeah. It’s not happy being here for some reason. Coral’s probably ready to jump out of her skin.

“Where to next?” Merlin asks.

“This way.” Martin strikes out as if he knows where he’s going, leading us away from the field and toward a series of low buildings. Dormitories, I suspect. He has something in his hand, and I spot the edges of a card peeking out. He holds it out in front of him as if it’s a dowsing rod, his hand swaying until he shifts direction to follow it.

I really don’t want to think about where he got this idea.

Coral walks next to me, watching Martin as we go. “I can feel it,” she says. “The Shadow closing in around us, the tendrils of Chaos reaching out like bindings. And what he does—it’s something more than Trump. Something older.”

Yeah, that bad feeling is getting worse.

“Does it feel at all familiar?” I ask.

She takes her time considering the question before nodding. “Yes. And I don’t like it.”

And that right there is the nail in the coffin. I lean in close, whisper, “If Martin offers to take you somewhere after this is done, I recommend that you don’t go.”

Her good eye widens in some surprise. “He is your son,” she whispers back. “Don’t you trust him?”

“I don’t trust the person he’d take you to see.” Or the place, or the reasons behind the visit.

As I said, there is a price to pay for everything, and I suspect that Coral is the coin. When she was at Corwin’s Pattern, she was beyond Brand’s touch. After we finish here, when she is weakened by my use of the Jewel, she’ll be at risk.

There’s a game and we are mid-play and unfortunately, I don’t know the rules. Doesn’t mean I can’t try to break them anyway.

“When you look at Merlin, what do you see?” I murmur.

“Not as much as when I look at you,” she admits. “He’s less tangled, but he’s tangled nonetheless.”

That’s what I thought. “Good. The Jewel wants to protect itself, and therefore, it wants to protect you. Merlin will do that. Stick close to him.”

She doesn’t respond, merely drifts away from me. I speed up, catch up to where Martin leads our group. When I glance back, Coral is by Merlin, her arm wound through his, leaning close to him as she whispers.

I need to keep Martin distracted.

“What did he have to say this time around?” I ask, because there’s nothing like being blunt to catch someone off-guard.

“How to get Dara out.” At least he doesn’t ask what I’m talking about. “I needed a way to track her once we got here, and he gave me that.”

“That.” I indicate the card in his hand.

He opens it, shows me the same card he had before, sitting on his palm. “A different way of looking at things. She’s still her enough to be able to use it to find her.” We stop outside a building, ivy crawling up the stone walls. “She’s in there, somewhere.”

The door opens, and a small crowd steps out. Most of them are unfamiliar faces, but two are immediately recognizable.

“Dara!” Martin calls out, and she stops on the step, brow furrowed in irritation.

“Why do I keep—”

He calls her name again, and she turns slowly, heads toward him. “I don’t know you, but that’s the same voice I heard the first time, months ago. You weren’t here then.”

“Stop bothering her,” Marco says, and Martin bristles.

“Dara, I know you don’t remember, but we can help you,” he says.

That’s my cue to rattle the cage a bit.

I reach for the Jewel; Coral grunts uncomfortably in the background as I focus on it, bring it to mind. The world around me takes on a reddish hue, and I can see the framework in which we stand. It’s built strongly, woven tight with tendrils of Chaos that flicker when I touch them with the Pattern’s energy.

I take two steps back; it’s likely that a storm’s coming in.

Thunder booms and lightning cracks. That happened faster than expected.

We all race for the door as rain pours down. Martin crowds through on Dara’s heels, grabbing at her elbow. She wheels around and punches him in the nose, surprised when he doesn’t go down. “Who are you?” she demands.

“Martin,” he says as firmly as he can. “I’m Martin. And you saved my life before you left me for my uncle.”

She laughs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I trace a path around the room, treading careful steps. This place is strong, yes, but I can see the cracks. Coral makes a low noise as I pull from the Jewel, pulling chance from thin air to change the likelihood of having company in this room.

Dara’s friends scatter like gnats.

It isn’t easy, but I have some control over this place now.

“Random,” Coral murmurs, pain tight in her voice. “Please stop.”

Dara stares at Martin, shakes her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she repeats.

“You’re trapped here,” he says. “You missed out on raising your own son.”

“I don’t have a son!”

Merlin makes a choked sound. “Yeah. Actually. You do.”

“Random!”

I can’t ignore the pain in Coral’s voice. The Jewel is power, and she’s just a mortal vessel for it. It will sustain her to the best of its ability, but my use of it is a distraction, and I don’t know how much she can take.

“Are you sure this is her?” I ask.

Martin looks down at the card in his hand, stares at it for a long time, until Dara blinks and shakes her head, takes several steps back. “Yes,” he says. “It’s her.”

Well, then, it’s time to pull this Shadow down.

Red floods my gaze, and I feel Coral in my mind, whispering, pleading, and I whisper silently back _use your pain_ and she does. It is highly likely that the next wave of thunder will shatter this wall around us, let Shadow flood back to where it belongs.

Sound booms, the world shakes, and Coral screams.

Everything goes black.

#

Shadow floods back in with a crack that fades to echoing silence that rings in my ears with the sheer absence of sound. Merlin lies unconscious, while Coral stands next to me, wavering on her feet. Martin pushes himself to his knees, crawls across dirt and mud to Dara’s prone form. She comes to her knees, head pressed to the ground, while he keeps a hand on her back.

Long red hair slips to a short, dark pixie cut. Even in the near-darkness I can see the change in skin tone, the freckles that dot her almost hidden cheeks.

“Everything is as it should be,” Coral whispers. When I look, there’s blood under the Jewel, thin streams down her cheek. I don’t know if it’s damage or tears.

She’s right, though. I don’t need to use the Jewel to sense that Shadow has gone back to its correct formation, like a rubber band snapping back into place, with us the collateral damage while along for the ride.

Dara raises her head, pushes her bangs back from her face before she stands. Her expression is closed off when she regards us, brow furrowing. She says something to Martin, and he squeezes her shoulder.

As he walks over to us, Dara walks away, disappearing between trees that surround the clearing we’re now in.

“Thank you, Coral.” Martin reaches out, and clasps her hand with both of his. She slumps slightly, exhaustion in every line of her body when he pulls her in for a hug.

I’m not thinking clearly, that’s all I have to say for myself. I have a moment to think that I see something in his hand, then I see the rainbows. Their images flatten before disappearing in a colorful haze.

Merlin groans.

Well, shit. Now we’re fucked.

Merlin comes to his knees first, sits back, hand pressed to his forehead. “What hit us?”

“An entire Shadow.” I crouch next to him. “Do you want the short version or the long version of the aftermath?”

“Where did Martin go?” Dara returns, clad in almost the same outfit as her Trump. Long, lean, and lanky, a sword hanging by her hip. She has at least some command over Shadow, although I’d hesitate to say whether that was Pattern or Logrus that helped her.

“Short version,” Merlin mutters.

“Dara’s back to being Dara. Martin Trumped out with Coral. We’re sitting in Shadow somewhere, but we’re not trapped.”

“And I have a headache the size of the entire state of Texas.” Merlin groans again, rises slowly. “I’d love to know why I was hit more than the rest of you.”

“Can’t answer that.” Suspicions, yes, most of them having to do with just how close he is to certain major powers now. Still, not really a necessary discussion for this point in time. “I think we have some urgent problems to deal with.”

Dara stalks closer, pushes between me and Merlin. She gets a hand on his cheek, her gaze narrowing before it goes oddly soft. He stands there, body stiff.

“You look like your father,” she says.

“She raised me and told me she was my mother,” Merlin counters.

“You can’t blame me for that. No matter how many times I wanted to kill her for her machinations, I wasn’t actually going to do it,” Dara tells him. “Besides, she took you. I wasn’t going to risk your life.”

“So you risked your own?”

She shrugs and looks away. “Not many people have the chance to get to know their children for the first time as adults.”

“It’s something of a tradition in our family,” I remind them. “And speaking of children, my son has kidnapped the King of Kashfa’s wife, and if I’m not mistaken, your girlfriend.” Merlin nods, while Dara gives him a confused look. “If they’re going where I think, we need to get them back. And your Ghostwheel won’t be able to get us further than the edge of the Abyss.”

I can see the wheels turning in Merlin’s mind, the moment when he realizes exactly what I mean, and how the pieces fit together. “Shit,” he says. “Ghost, get us to the Abyss.”

#

“Martin was already waiting for us at the edge of the Abyss.” I sit on the end of our bed, and when Vialle walks near, I catch her and draw her in close, kissing her slowly. “Did you miss me?”

“Terribly,” she agrees. She frames my face with her hands, runs her fingertips across my features as if they might have changed while I was gone. Her touch glides across my forehead, and I wonder if new lines have appeared. I’m vain enough not to want to know.

“And Coral and Martin? Are they both safe?” She kisses me, and it would be easy enough to try to distract her. Even after all this time, Vialle is somehow the center of my world.

She was to be my punishment and turned out to be my salvation. When I say I’m a lucky man, she’s a large part of that.

We rearrange ourselves on the bed, her gown across my legs. I gently stroke her back, press a kiss to her temple. “They’re safe. By the time Ghost got us there, they’d already been into the Abyss and returned. Martin was protected by his fledgling shapeshifting. The Jewel protected Coral.”

“And is still—”

“In her eye? Yes. The Serpent didn’t somehow reclaim it, nor did Brand.” There is a piece of the story I’m missing, but neither Coral nor Martin volunteered the information. The most we could tell was that both were unharmed from the excursion, and Coral in fact seemed invigorated. Rejuvenated. She had forgiven Martin, if there were anything to forgive.

“Did Coral return to Kashfa, or to Corwin’s Pattern?” Vialle slides her hand across my chest and I catch it, bringing it up so I can kiss her fingertips.

“If you plan on asking me more questions, hold that thought,” I suggest. “I’ve missed you, too.” I lay her hand down upon my chest, covering it with my own, just above my heart. “Coral remains in Chaos, at Merlin’s side. Dara the younger is with them, determined to know her son. Dara the elder is… nowhere to be found. Mandor claims she has gone into Shadow for reasons of her own, which may be true. I am not entirely sure we want to know those reasons.”

“But Merlin’s mother is safe,” Vialle says.

“Merlin’s actual mother is safe, and the woman who raised him is elsewhere, yes. And my son is with them as well. He says he still has things to learn.” Things to learn, people to woo. We are not so different, he and I, and I see how he looks at Dara.

“You expect him to take the Logrus someday.”

It’s not that simple. “Perhaps,” I say. “If he can do it safely. He’s struggling with finding that side of his lineage, but Merlin thinks it can be done.”

Vialle goes quiet, soft in my arms. I think that perhaps we are done, and I kiss her, long and slow.

She draws back, lowers her head to lie against my chest. “You plan to declare him your heir, yes?” she asks.

“Yes.” That hasn’t changed, although the details have perhaps rearranged themselves after our recent adventure. Martin’s time in Chaos will bring a new perspective to the throne of Amber, should he ever need to take it. And when he marries Dara, we will forge a new alliance between the two ends of the universe. There are advantages to this.

“Good,” Vialle says. Her fingers curl around mine, and she carries my hand to her belly. She presses until my fingers spread, covering the small curve there beneath her gown. “Then our daughter can grow without worrying that she will be called upon to take the throne. You can spoil her however you wish.”

My daughter.

Well, shit.

I kiss her thoroughly, because there is no real other answer to that. I whisper _I love you_ into the skin of her throat, and swallow her delighted laughter with another kiss. “I am going to buy her a drum set as soon as she’s old enough,” I murmur, and that sets Vialle to laughing all over again.

We consummate our love, and I am gentle and reverent, because this is Vialle, my love, and now the mother of my second child.

I never asked to be a father, and I will now be one twice over. All I ask is to be better than my father before me. All I ask is to deserve the title.

When I think of how I’ve done with Martin, I know I’m not perfect. But I’m getting there.

And I’ll be even better the second time around.


End file.
